is the Great Psychiatrist--the Father Confessor. For where can one bare
one's soul, or soothe one's nerves and disposition frayed by a day's
endeavor, better than in the tender yet firm embrace of music?"

* * * * *

Bartle was straining to follow the train of thought that was lost in the
camouflage of Pettigill's flowery phraseology.

"You see all about you these many recorders, Mr. Bartle?"

Bartle nodded.

"On those machines, sir, are spools of tape. Music tapes, all music. My
heavens, every kind: classical music, jazz, western, all kinds of music.
Some tapes are no more than a single melodious note, sustained for
whatever length of time necessary to relax and please the Echelon level
home it is being beamed to. Oh, I tell you, Mr. Bartle, when the last
tape has expended itself for the day, as our service code suggests, I
leave this great edifice with a feeling of profound pride in the fact
that I have so served my fellow man. You share that feeling too, don't
you Mr. Bartle?"

Bartle shrugged. Pettigill paused and looked at the watch he carried on
a long chain attached to a clasp on his tunic.

"A Benz chronometer, given to me by Section Secretary Andrews on the
completion of my twenty-five years of service. It's radio-synchronized
with the master timepiece in Greenland. It gives me a feeling of close
communion with my superiors, if you understand what I mean."

Bartle did not. He said, "Am I keeping you from your work? If I am, I
believe I can fill in on most of this back at the paper; we have files
on the Center's operation."

The little man hurriedly put out a hand to restrain Bartle who was
easing out of the chair.

"Not yet, Mr. Bartle," he said, suddenly much more sober. Then his
incongruous pomposity appeared again. "My gracious, no, you aren't
keeping me from my work. I just must start the Mid-Lower Echelon tape.
It won't take a moment. Tonight, they receive 'Concerto For Ass's
Jawbone.' Sounds rather ridiculous, doesn't it? Be that as it may, there
is a certain stimulation in its rhythmic cacophony. Aboriginality--yes,
I would say it arouses a primitive exaltation."

He flicked a switch above the recorder, turned a knob, and pressed the
starter button on the machine. The tape began winding slowly from one
spool to another.

"Is it 'casting'?" Bartle asked. "I don't hear a thing."

Pettigill laughed. "My stars, no; you can't hear it. See--" He pointed
at a need